Storming Seas
by myodestiny
Summary: After surviving the Hunger Games a second time, Annie has escaped to District 13 with Johanna and Katniss Everdeen, but Finnick and Peeta were taken by the Capitol. Now they're trapped on opposite sides of a revolution, and none of them know whether they'll ever see each other again. Mockingjay AU, sequel to Tempest Rising.
1. Chapter 1

The Quell, the Reaping, the arena, the flood, _Finnick_.

Slowly, Annie became aware of herself. Starched sheets scraped at her aching, tender skin. A rhythm beeped softly in her ears. Bright lights glowed beyond her eyelids. She squinted into them, and as the blindness faded away, she found herself gazing up at a familiar face.

"Mags," the word raked her throat, and tears sprung to her eyes.

Mags let out a gasp of relief as she bent forward and pressed her lips to Annie's forehead. She smoothed the hair from her eyes, tucked the loose strands behind her ear, stroked her cheek. Annie tried to reach for her, only to find her arms encumbered in tubes and wires. A hospital—she was in a hospital. Panic seized in her chest. She tried to pull her arms free, tried to sit up, and suddenly she felt dizzy with pain.

"Whoa, whoa," Haymitch Abernathy stepped forward as Mags eased her back into her pillow. "Take it easy, sweetheart, you just got out of surgery."

Haymitch Abernathy…Annie began to remember. He was part of the plan, the plan to get Katniss out of the arena, to start a revolution—one she didn't think she'd get to see after she'd been impaled in the arena. But she looked to find the shard of wood had disappeared from her side, though she wouldn't have guessed it from the burning sensation she felt deep beneath her skin.

"Where are we?" she croaked as soon as the dizziness began to pass. She roamed the strange, bleak room with her eyes—windowless walls surrounded them on every side, and the ceiling hung low over their heads. The single sliding door across from her bed opened, and men and women in crisp white uniforms stepped into the room, started to check the monitors by her head, adjust the tubes in her arms. Mags gave Annie's hand a squeeze of assurance.

"We're in District 13," Haymitch explained. "You'll be safe here until this war is over."

Safe. She didn't feel safe, not while latched down to a hospital bed, not while one of the nurses began to fill a fresh syringe with morphling. But that didn't matter now.

"Is Finnick okay?" she looked to Mags expectantly, but the old woman dropped her eyes, and Annie felt her stomach sink as she watched the tears swell on her lashes. "Mags…"

Haymitch let out a sigh, and he rubbed at his brow for a moment before he finally spoke, "After you got separated, Katniss ripped a hole in the dome of the arena. When it came down, Finnick was caught under the debris."

Dread crept up Annie's throat. Mags hid her face beneath her hand, her shoulders beginning to quake. Annie's own lips trembled as she mustered the courage to ask, "Is he dead?"

Haymitch couldn't look at her, "No…he's in the Capitol."

* * *

><p>Finnick started awake, expecting to find himself at the feet of the Peacekeepers who'd captured him. But when he opened his eyes, they were gone, and all the rest of the world with them. Bright lights bore down on him, and the stark white walls burned his eyes. Blinking, he sat up, ignoring the aches that wracked his body. The tattered remains of the Quell uniform still clung to his ash-coated skin, and the tears and burns in his flesh were festered with oily, yellow scabs. How long had it been since he'd been plucked from the arena?<p>

Finnick turned to find a fourth wall made of glass, where he could see a hallway lined with identical cells, empty as far as he could see.

"Annie?" he called softly, cautiously, fearing retaliation. When no one responded, he grew bolder, "Annie…Annie!" Finnick pressed his forehead to the glass, straining to glimpse into the cells on either side of him, across from him. But there was nothing, no one, not even a guard. He started to search the walls for a handle, a lock, a seam. He stepped back and kicked at the glass pane with all the force he had. It didn't so much as shudder.

The sound of an opening door echoed from down the hall, followed by footsteps and the clacking sound of Peacekeepers' armor. Finnick swallowed at the dry knot of fear in his throat as he backed into his cell, bracing himself for one last fight, for the inevitable pain, for death.

He wasn't expecting to see President Snow step up to his cell. "Hello Mr. Odair," the President greeted him with his usual cool indifference. The Peacekeepers on either side of him had their guns drawn, as if ready for an execution, but he held them at bay. "You're very lucky to be alive," he told Finnick. "That arena almost crushed you after you helped Katniss Everdeen destroy it."

"Where-where's Annie?" Finnick couldn't keep himself from shaking—he'd heard all the ghastly rumors about the President's torture chambers, about what happened to Avoxes before they had their tongues cut out, about all the creative ways information was extracted from spies and political dissenters. If Annie was here…

A glimmer of amusement shone in Snow's eye before he stated, "She's in our custody."

Finnick's stomach turned, and he slumped back against the wall before he could fall to his knees. Lies began to tumble from his lips before he could think, "She didn't do anything, it was my idea to help them. She didn't know, I didn't tell her what was really going on-"

Snow cut him off, "Spare me your excuses."

"_Please_," tears bit at Finnick's eyes. "I'll cooperate. I'll tell you what I know, I'll do anything you want if you let her go."

"You're not in any position to negotiate, Mr. Odair."

Finnick felt sick. He slid to the floor, and Snow watched him with cold disapproval.

"You know I was going to let you win," he finally said. "All you had to do was keep playing the game."

Finnick could only glare at him, "You think I would have let Annie die?"

Snow rolled his eyes, "Yes, Miss Cresta would have been dead." A smirk began to curl the corner of his lip, "But she wouldn't have been in pain."

Finnick shuddered, and he had to swallow back the bile in his throat before he could speak, "If you hurt her, I won't tell you anything."

But the President leaned forward, his eyes wide with bloodlust as he grinned, "We'll see about that."


	2. Chapter 2

Tumblr Link

_"__He's in the Capitol."_

The nurses grabbed Annie as soon as she began to scream. They pinned her down while she sobbed, forced the needle of morphling into her arm, and there was nothing she could do as the numbness seeped into her veins, pulled her down into a dark, dreamless ocean.

She woke blinking into the same dim hospital lights. The ache in her body had dulled, and a druggy fog lingered in her mind. It took her a moment to remember where she was, what had happened to her, the last words she'd heard before she'd lost control.

_"__He's in the Capitol." _

Finnick was in the Capitol. She had to do something. She tried to sit up. She couldn't move. The needles and wires that had encased her arms before were gone, and in their place were nylon straps anchoring her to the bed.

Panic raced up Annie's throat. She struggled to pull her wrists free, but the straps only seemed to tighten against her skin. Her ankles were bound. The room was empty, shrinking all around her. She couldn't escape, she couldn't breathe.

Annie let out a startled cry when the door opened. A stranger stepped into the room, and for a moment he only looked at her as she struggled against her restraints, gasping for air. He finally glanced down at the clipboard in his hand before he spoke,

"Annie Cresta? I'm Dr. Aurelius, I'm here for your assessment."

"Let me go!" she demanded, unable to keep her voice from shaking. She jerked against her restraints, and she could feel the nylon cutting into her skin.

The doctor settled into the seat by her bedside, "Take a deep breath, Annie." His voice was slow, soft, as if she might not understand him. "Can you tell me where you are? Do you remember what happened to you?"

Annie knew he was assessing more than her memory. "I-I'm in District 13," she sputtered. "I was in the Quarter Quell and I got out but…" Tears swelled in her eyes, "They took Finnick…"

Dr. Aurelius pursed his lips, "Right now we need to focus on you."

She shook her head as she gulped back a sob, "I ca-can't do this right now, I need to talk to Mags."

He scribbled something on his clipboard before he looked back to her, explaining with the same slow tone, "You've been identified as an at-risk patient, Annie. I'm here to assess you, and if I can clear you, you'll be discharged today. But I can't release you until we're sure you're not a danger to yourself or anyone else."

"I'm not!" she insisted, though her body betrayed her. She was blubbering, twitching, her fear leaking from every pore of her body. "_Please_," she begged. "I can't do this right now. I promise I'm not crazy, please just let me go, please let me talk to Mags!"

The doctor was scribbling on his clipboard again, a grim expression set in his darkened, exhausted eyes. He didn't believe her. Annie could feel herself panicking, feel the scream building up in the back of her throat.

"Annie," his expression softened as he looked at her, "I want you to try to breathe with me. I need to know that you can soothe yourself."

But she could hardly form words anymore. "M-mags," she stammered, but he shook his head. "You need to do this on your own. Now take a deep breath…" He inhaled, and Annie tried to follow his lead, with little success. Still, he coaxed her on, "Try again. Get that breath and hold onto it."

Finally, Annie managed to gasp in enough air to hold in her lungs. Dr. Aurelius waited for a moment before he told her to exhale, and another moment for her to breath again. Faltering, she managed to mimic his pattern, though she didn't feel any less afraid. By the time he seemed satisfied, her chest was still quivering, and he paused to jot a few more things down in his notebook. She'd failed.

Annie watched him, his writing hidden from her view. "Please don't lock me up," she pleaded, her voice half a whimper.

He sighed, hesitating before he finally spoke, "I've got some questions to ask you, but I think they can wait for another day. For now, I'm writing you a prescription for anti-anxiety medication, and you'll be meeting with me in a few days for a follow-up assessment."

Annie blinked at him, "You're discharging me?"

"For now, yes."

She let out a gasp of relief, "Please untie me."

He leaned forward to loose her from the bed, and she swallowed back the fear in her throat as she finally pulled her limbs free. She was still shaking, still gasping at the air, and she braced her arms against her chest, trying desperately to hide it. She certainly didn't look stable, but the doctor was standing nonetheless.

"Timias is waiting for you outside," the doctor told her as he tucked his clipboard under his arm. "He'll take you to the laundry facilities to get your clothes and your amenities, then he'll show you to your room. Here's a tentative schedule for you. We'll adjust it as needed."

He pushed a folder into her hands, then offered to help her from the bed. Annie stood on her own, and instead he guided her to the door where a stout, silver-haired man waited for them.

"I'll be in touch with you, Annie," Dr. Aurelius promised, and his words made her shudder.

"Thank you," she murmured, avoiding his eyes as she followed after the silver-haired man. He led her wordlessly through District 13, through hallway after hallway, all the same, all filled with stale air and artificial light.

"Why aren't there any windows?" Annie mustered the courage to ask.

The man's answer was gruff, "We're underground."

Her stomach turned, "H-how far underground?"

"Right now? About three hundred feet."

Annie felt the walls closing in again, but before she could panic, the man stopped and opened a door labeled "LAUNDRY."

Inside, dozens of washing and drying machines murmured in the back of the long, bleach-white room. A tall, swarthy woman sat at a front desk typing into a computer. She glanced up as Annie and her escort approached.

"Another newbie?" she asked the man as she looked back to the monitor.

He nodded, and the woman stood to retrieve a canvas bag from a back shelf. She plopped it on the counter before giving Annie a once-over.

"Well, you're definitely a Small," she said as she reached under the counter and retrieved a folded gray jumpsuit. "Go ahead and try it on to be sure." She handed the jumpsuit to Annie and pointed to a curtained off room just behind the desk. Annie shuffled in without question. There was no mirror, only a small bench for her to place her things. She set the jumpsuit down and reluctantly pulled the hospital gown over her head.

Her bare skin prickled as soon it hit the air, and the tension triggered an ache in her side. For the first time, she saw the swollen, pink scar beneath her ribs, a permanent reminder of the wound that would have surely killed her in the arena, had Plutarch Heavensbee not made good on his promises to her. If only he'd made good on the promises he'd made to Finnick…

Annie donned the jumpsuit and stepped out of the dressing room. The starchy fabric felt too tight at her hips and gathered at her ankles, but the laundry woman nodded in approval, "Great. I've got your shoes right here. There's two more suits in the bag. You get a new one each morning, and new sheets every other week. If any clothes are bedding ever get damaged, bring them back here, okay?"

Annie took the boots sitting on the counter and pulled them on in place of her hospital slippers. She turned her gown over to the laundry woman with a half-hearted thank you, the silver-haired man walked her back into the hallway, through another set of twists and turns until they finally arrived at her apartment. He rapped twice on the metal door before he pulled it open, and as soon as Annie got a glimpse inside, she rushed forward with a cry,

"Mags!"

Mags had been sitting on one of the cramped room's two bunks, and she stood just in time to catch Annie in her arms. Annie didn't know whether or not the silver-haired man was still watching her, but she couldn't hold herself together any longer. A sob escaped her lips, and she broke into another fit of trembling. Mags held her tightly, stroked her hair and rocked her back and forth, but she couldn't be consoled. It was all too much—Dr. Aurelius, District 13, Finnick. Finnick. _Finnick_.

When she could finally speak, there was only one thing she could say:

"They're going to kill him, Mags. Snow's going to kill him…"


	3. Chapter 3

Snow left Finnick there in his cell, with nothing but white walls for company. He didn't tell Finnick what he was planning to do to him, and Finnick didn't wanted to know. He needed to focus on an escape plan: he had to figure out a way to rescue Annie and get out of the Capitol, get to District 4 or District 13 or wherever they could hide. He just had to figure out how to do it.

He had plenty of time to plan. Hours upon hours passed, or at least that's what it felt like. Finnick had no way of telling the passage of time under the bright, unchanging lights that bore down on him. His wounds were beginning to fester, and his stomach had pulled itself into an aching knot. He hadn't been fed. His hands started to shake. He told himself to ignore it. He wouldn't give Snow the satisfaction of seeing him weak and afraid. He had to plan. But his thoughts were interrupted by a piercing, shrill scream.

Finnick's stomach unraveled at the voice, and he staggered to his feet as he shouted back, "Annie! Annie!" She was sobbing, shrieking in pain, crying out for him to save her. He pounded on the glass door of his cell, threw himself at it, her name never leaving his lips, "Annie!"

He didn't hear the Peacekeepers approaching over the sounds of her screams. They lined themselves up across the door before they retracted the glass pane. Finnick didn't have time to think—he charged at them, desperate to break through the armored barrier, but a dozen arms caught him, wrestled him onto the ground. They cuffed his hands behind his back, wrenched him back to his feet, and marched him down the hallway.

Finnick struggled fruitlessly against them, "Where is she?! Where is Annie?!" Her screams still echoed through the hall, and when they pushed him through the next set of doors, the agonized sound ripped through the air anew. Finnick's eyes swept the room in search of the source, in search of Annie, but she wasn't there, nor were they in another holding cell. This was a torture chamber.

The Peacekeepers stripped the tatters of Finnick's uniform down to his waist. They forced him into a long, metal chair, similar to the kind of chairs that Capitol citizens reclined on while they had their teeth straightened and bleached, only this one had no plush cushions to separate his skin from the biting metal. They strapped down his arms, his chest, his legs, and finally they stepped away. Annie's screams subsided, but Finnick barely had time to catch his breath before President Snow stepped into the room.

"Where's Annie?" Finnick blurted.

Snow simply nodded towards the ceiling speakers, "You heard her, didn't you?"

Finnick swallowed at the fear creeping up his throat, "I'm not saying anything until you let her go."

The President shook his head, "That's not how this is going to work." He circled Finnick's chair, and one of the Peacekeepers followed him to the tray of probes and scalpels at his side. "Miss Cresta is being held in another room," Snow explained. "And if your answers to my questions or not satisfactory, both of you will receive an unpleasant stimulus. Do you understand?"

Finnick wouldn't acknowledge him. He glared at the ceiling, listening to the sound of Annie's ragged breath. The Peacekeeper picked up slender, palm-sized device with short metal prongs. President Snow stood at Finnick's shoulder as he began his questioning,

"Finnick Odair, were you involved in the plot to destroy the Quarter Quell and free Katniss Everdeen from the arena?"

Finnick clenched his jaw, refusing to answer. The Peacekeeper pressed the prongs to his abdomen. Instantly, the skin beneath it began to burn and blister. He held the grunt of pain behind his teeth, but the sound of Annie's shriek made him sick,

"_Finnick!_"

"Annie, hold on!" he shouted back.

"She can't hear you," Snow told him.

Finnick squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ignore the burn as it crept down into his flesh. He could stand the pain—clients had burned him before—but he knew Annie couldn't. He knew that burning was one of her fears. This torture wasn't designed for him, it was designed for her.

"Answer the question," Snow ordered. "Were you involved in the plot or not?"

Reluctantly, Finnick spoke, "I was, but Annie wasn't."

"Wasn't she?" Snow raised an eyebrow, and the Peacekeeper burned him again on his abdomen. Annie screamed. "I know the answers to some of these questions, Mr. Odair. I'll know when you're lying to me. Tell me again whether or not Annie was involved."

Finnick looked at him, "I've already answered your question." He couldn't implicate Annie. His word alone would be enough to have her executed for treason. He had no idea what she'd already confessed, but he wouldn't name her, not if he had a chance of saving her life.

So Snow had him burned again, and again, and again, until dozens of blistering pockets covered his abdomen. The sweat that coated his skin only aggravated them, as did the salt-like chemical the Peacekeeper occasionally rubbed into the wounds to keep them from drying or cooling. The pain was becoming unbearable—every gasp for breath ripped at the tender, burned flesh. Cries of pain escaped him against his will. But his own pain didn't compare to the sound of Annie's agony. With each burn he heard her bawling, screaming his name, begging his mercy. Still, Finnick wouldn't speak. He bit his tongue until he tasted blood.

"Should we try something else, sir?" the Peacekeeper turned to Snow for direction.

The President held up a hand for him to stand down. He leaned towards his captor until Finnick could smell the rot of his mouth through his perfume. "I know you and Miss Cresta were both involved in this, and I know who put you up to it. I also know how fond you are of secrets, Mr. Odair. Surely you have some regarding Plutarch and his rebels?"

"I don't have any of Plutarch's secrets," Finnick hissed between shallow breaths. "He didn't make me sleep with anybody."

Snow's lips tightened in displeasure as he straightened. "This will not bode well for Miss Cresta," he warned before nodding to the guards. "Take him back to his cell."

The Peacekeepers unlatched Finnick from the chair and pulled him onto his feet. His knees buckled beneath him, but they dragged him on. This time, he was too weak to struggle. They marched him back down the hall and tossed him into the same white room. Finnick managed to catch himself on his hands just before his stomach hit the floor. He flipped himself onto his back as the Peacekeepers relocked his cell and marched away. He could only watch them go as he struggled to regain his breath.

Eventually, the burns began to dry, though the pain still throbbed in his skin. He squeezed his eyes shut and thought of Annie. He'd kept her safe as best as he could. He tried not to think about the same oozing burns pocking her body—they would heal, and once he'd rescue her, he'd kiss her scars until she'd forgotten the pain.

The burns had scabbed over by the time Finnick heard footsteps approaching. He watched, waiting, unwilling to move if he could help it. A Peacekeeper stopped in front of the keypad to his cell. He punched in a passcode, and a metal slot opened beneath the pad. The Peacekeeper slid a tray into the slot and walked away.

_Food._ Finnick's stomach groaned for it, and gingerly he maneuvered himself onto his knees, crawled towards the open slot. His mouth watered as he pulled the tray through, took a first look at his meal-

The tray clattered to the ground, and Finnick staggered away with a strangled cry. His scabs broke open as he began to heave, as a sob racked his body. He backed into the wall, squeezed his eyes shut as he dug his fingernails into his scalp. Only one word escaped his lips, "_No, no, no…_"

There wasn't anything on the tray except for a single human tongue.


	4. Chapter 4

"I'm not really hungry," Annie muttered to the man handing out lunches in the District 13 cafeteria, but he pushed a tray into her hands anyway. She let out a sigh under her breath, but she wasn't about to protest. She feared that drawing any kind of attention to herself could put her straight into the District's psych ward. So she quietly carried the two trays, hers and Mags', toward the dining tables.

Mags hobbled alongside her, relying on the plain metal cane she'd been provided. She used a cane every now and then at home, especially when she was stressed. Annie couldn't blame her now, though a quiet worry nagged at her. She tried to ignore it, and together the two of them migrated to an empty table. Mags settled slowly into her seat, leaning her cane against the bench beside herself before she turned to her food.

Annie inspected what they'd been given—a pallid, meat-textured block, a stiff role, half-dissolved beans, and something that looked like applesauce. What little appetite she'd had disappeared. Mags let out a chuckle as she picked at the mystery meat, but she stuck a chunk in her mouth and nudged Annie to do the same.

She shook her head. She couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't focus on any one thing for more than a few minutes at a time. Every stray thought returned to Finnick, like waves ebbing and breaking upon the same shore again and again, the grief packing into her chest like wet sand. But what could she do? Haymitch had disappeared, and nobody else would even look her in the eye-

"Well, look who's here," Johanna Mason dropped her tray onto the table and plunked onto the bench beside Annie before she could object. "I figured they had you shut up in the nuthouse."

"I was- I was just in the hospital," Annie stammered, her eyes fixed on her tray.

Johanna elbowed her side, "They got the stick out of you?"

She flinched away from her, "Yeah."

"You're lucky," Johanna told her around a mouthful of food. "They couldn't get the stick out of Katniss' ass." She pointed her fork across the cafeteria, where Katniss Everdeen slouched at a table of her own, eyes vacant, food untouched. Her sister sat beside her, concern knit in her brow as she tried to coax the Mockingjay to eat something. Did Annie look so forlorn?

"They took Peeta too," she murmured.

For once, Johanna fell silent. After a moment, she turned to Mags, "What's with the cane, old lady?"

Mags let out a sigh through her nose and waved Johanna's question away with a wrinkled hand. The table grew quiet again. Johanna shoved her last chunk of meat into her mouth before glancing over at Annie's tray,

"Are you going to eat that?"

Annie blinked out of her thoughts. "N-no," she answered quietly. She watched as Johanna commandeered her tray, muttering something about the small portions. "Have you…" the words fizzled in Annie's throat. Johanna didn't hear her. She drew a breath and tried again, "Have you heard anything? About Peeta and Finnck?"

Johanna stabbed at the meat, shaking her head. "The President and her goons don't care," she grumbled around another mouthful. "Katniss is the only person they needed. The rest of us are just extra baggage."

Annie swallowed, "So they're not going to do anything? They're not even going to find out if they're alive?"

She shrugged, "Maybe you'll make them feel guilty once you start coming to the meetings."

"What meetings?"

Johanna looked at her, "The council meetings. With Coin and her goons and the Victors, where we pretend to help the Rebellion." She glanced over at Mags, who appeared similarly puzzled. "Did you two not get invited?"

"It's not on my schedule…" Annie told her.

She let out a cynical laugh, "Wow, they've got some nerve. Well there's one this afternoon, and you're coming with me."

Annie stiffened, "I can't, it's not on my schedule…"

"So?"

"I can't afford to get in trouble."

Johanna snorted, "We're Victors—the people around her are scared of us. No one cares whether or not we follow their stupid rules."

"Maybe they don't care about you," Annie muttered. "But they don't think you're insane."

Mags pursed her lips, and Johanna threw her head back in frustration, "Just come with me, I'll make sure you don't get in trouble. You in, old lady?"

Mags quickly shook her head no.

"Annie? Come on, I at least want to see the looks on their faces when you walk in the door." Johanna paused for a moment before she added. "…It's the only way you're going to get them to even think about saving Finnick."

Annie crossed her arms over herself, hesitating. It was a while before she finally answered, "Okay, fine. I'll go."

She didn't realize that meant Johanna was going to follow her around until the meeting started. She wandered back to her workstation with her, lounged around the assembly room while Annie taped up relief packages. All the while she complained about the poor amenities of District 13—the bad food, the stiff mattresses, the short, lukewarm showers, the lack of entertainment. Annie didn't know what to do with her. She didn't know what to make of Johanna at all. The course, crude Victor had done nothing but taunt her in the Quell, and now she was acting as if the Quell never happened, as if Finnick wasn't in the Capitol dead or worse. But Annie wasn't going to risk confronting her, making her angry. Johanna claimed the people in District 13 were scared of the Victors—they were probably just scared of her. She could only hope that after the council meeting, Johanna would leave her alone.

"It's starting soon, let's go," Johanna finally announced, and Annie jumped up from the assembly line with a relieved sigh. She trotted to keep up as Johanna stalked through the halls, heading for the District's core.

"Is the President going to be there?" Annie asked her.

She scoffed, "She can't stand not to control everything in this District. Of course she's got to run all the meetings."

"Is she…?" Annie wasn't sure what to ask.

"A bitch?" Johanna finished for her. "Yes, and don't let her sappy den mother act fool you."

"That's not what I was going to say," she murmured as they neared an open conference room. Annie held her breath as she stepped into the room, expecting at least a dozen pairs eyes to meet hers. To her surprise, she found herself blinking at rows of empty chairs. The few members of the war council were clustered to one side of the table—Plutarch Heavensbee, looking deflated since the last time she'd seen him, Beetee, the only other Victor present, a tall, weathered man she didn't recognize, and a woman with her back to the door, too caught up in her conversation with Plutarch to realize they had newcomers.

"Hey," Johanna called, and the woman swiveled her chair to face her.

"It's nice of you to join us for a change, Miss Mason-" the woman stopped short at the sight of Annie.

"I brought another Victor," Johanna informed her as she glanced about the vacant room. "It looks like you could use one."

"Annie Cresta," the woman stood, breathless. She stepped forward and enveloped Annie's hands with her own, introducing herself, "Alma Coin. It's an honor to finally meet you." Her smile was warm, her head tilted to one side as she added, "But I'm afraid this is a closed meeting."

"Closed to who?" Johanna retorted before Annie had a chance to speak. "You invited all the other Victors except for her and Mags. What's the deal?"

President Coin gave Annie's hands a squeeze, her gaze bouncing between the two Victors as she spoke, "Well, it was my understanding that Miss Cresta's particular…_skills_ were best utilized elsewhere."

"To tape up boxes?" Johanna raised her eyebrows. "Are you trying to say she's stupid?"

"Johanna-" Annie breathed, but Coin talked over her.

"Of course not. If Miss Cresta is interested in coming to the council meetings, she can apply for a schedule change, provided she gets clearance from her psychiatrist."

Annie's heart sank in dismay. The application, the doctor's approval, the resulting evaluations—they were rings of barriers designed to scare her away, to keep her out even if she tried to surpass them. Johanna was beginning to argue again, but Annie finally spoke over her, "President Coin, please." She fumbled for the right words, "I'll put in the application, but if I could just sit in for one meeting-"

The President was already shaking her head, her eyes sympathetic, "I'm sorry, Miss Cresta, but these meetings are confidential. We can't take the chance of any sensitive information leaking out of this room."

"I won't leak anything," Annie promised.

"Then prove it," Coin told her. "Complete the application and prove to me that I can trust you. However, for now, I'm going to have to ask you to leave." She released Annie's hands in order to guide her back towards the door, and the moment she broke her gaze, Annie knew she wouldn't have another audience with the President.

"What about Finnick?" she blurted, desperate to plead her case. "Isn't there anything we can do to get him back? Is he alive?"

Coin's mouth hardened into a frown, "Miss Cresta, this is very inappropriate."

"_Please_." Annie felt her throat closing up, and she forced the words out with a shaky breath, "Katniss wouldn't be here without Finnick, you can't just leave him to die!"

But Coin was pushing her out the door. "If you return to this council room uninvited, there will be consequences," she warned. Johanna slipped out from behind her just as she shut the door in their faces.

Annie didn't know what to say, what to do. Johanna was shouting curses at the door, but it wouldn't help. There was nothing either of them could do to help Finnick now.


	5. Chapter 5

He did this. The pain, the dehydration had pulled him down into a feverish daze, but he couldn't forget the tongue lying across from him on the floor. Annie would never speak again, never spend another hour telling him about the ocean she loved so, never murmur another one of her little lullabies in his ear as they settled into sleep.

He'd seen how people in the Capitol treated their Avoxes—forcing them to stand and serve for hours upon hours, beating them for the slightest infractions, herding them into warehouses at night where they slept on stained cots and prayed the guards wouldn't touch them. This would be Annie's fate now. In his haze, Finnick dreamt of her cornered in the back hallway of some Capitol mansion, empty lips trembling as her master shoved his hands inside her uniform.

The door of his cell opened, but he couldn't move. Gloved hands lifted him up by his arms and legs, and he let out a groan as the fire resurged in his burnt skin. The Peacekeepers loaded him onto a gurney, didn't bother to strap him in as they wheeled him through the hall, through a set of swinging double doors, loaded him onto a medical table. Now they strapped him down. More torture? Even if he wanted to confess what he knew, Finnick probably couldn't string a coherent sentence together. The thought of more pain made him shiver, and he squeezed his eyes shut as a man in a white coat approached him.

He felt a little pinch in his arm. Finnick glanced down to see an IV needle in his vein. A bag of clear liquid hovered by his head. Another doctor stepped forward and wordlessly slipped a slender tube into his nostril. Finnick started in protest, but the man braced him by the temples and held him in place, tilting his head slightly as the tube snaked down his throat, into his stomach. Finnick struggled not to gag.

The first doctor stuck a syringe into Finnick's abdomen, and in seconds the dizzying pain began to fade. He breathed a sigh of relief, but the doctor warned him to remain still. The two men began to clean and dress his wounds, first the burns, then the other abrasions left over from the Quell. When they were done, they retreated to a nearby counter to clean their tools and scribble down notes. Whatever they were shooting up his arm or his nose was working—Finnick could feel his head beginning to clear, his strength returning. While the doctors weren't looking, he began to tug against his restraints. The nylon held him fast.

"I want to see Annie Cresta," he announced, his voice cracked and dry. The men glanced at him, a bit surprised, then returned to their work.

"Has she been treated here?" Finnick asked them insistently. "Was her surgery here?" They continued to ignore him. He pulled at his restraints to no avail, fearing that he'd fallen into the hands of the same men who'd turned Annie into an Avox, fearing that he was next. But before he could ask, both of the double doors blew open, and a cluster of Capitol citizens pushed their way into the room.

Finnick blinked at them, bewildered. Their tall wigs and bright clothes didn't seem to belong in this bleak space, and they certainly didn't match the stern looks on their faces, no matter how colorful their lips or their eyes. The doctors only nodded to them in acknowledgement, and the group surrounded the table, avoiding Finnick's gaze as they began to unpack their bags, replacing surgical tools with combs and files and tweezers—a styling team.

"What is this?" Finnick watched them, brows drawn. They didn't answer. Instead, they cut away what remained of his uniform and began to sponge his skin clean, working carefully around his bandages. They scraped the dirt and the blood out from under his nails, picked his teeth clean and scrubbed the dead flakes from his dry, cracked lips. They washed the debris out of his hair. Eventually, the doctors unhooked him from his tubes and loosened his restraints so that the stylists could stand him up and baste him in tinted, shimmery lotion, dress him in a stiff, white suit, and finally, painstakingly mask every nick and bruise left visible on his face, his neck, his hands.

Finnick couldn't hide his shaking from them. Surely Snow wasn't selling him still, not after everything that had happened. He'd made his deal with Plutarch because it meant he would leave the Quell dead or free—because either way, he'd no longer have to prostrate himself beneath or above or behind or before every senator and tycoon who had the power or money to possess him. He couldn't go back to that, not so suddenly, not after believing that it was finally over.

The stylists had hardly finished their work before President Snow arrived, an entourage of Peacekeepers at his heels. As he approached, the stylists shuffled away with hushed, nervous greetings, leaving Finnick standing alone to face him in the hospital-turned-dressing-room.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Odair," Snow stepped up to him without offering a hand to shake.

Finnick mustered a shaky breath, "I want to see An-"

"Don't," the President warned him sternly, and Finnick swallowed back his petition.

"Where am I going?" he murmured instead.

President Snow produced a crisp piece of paper as an answer, "I wanted to give this to you in person so that there would be no misunderstandings."

Reluctantly, Finnick took it. The gold-trimmed Capitol stationary glinted under the bright hospital lights as the sheet quivered in his hand, and it took Finnick a moment to focus on the words before him. It didn't take him long to figure out this wasn't about a client, but his relief lapsed back into alarm as he scanned the page. "No," he pushed the paper back at the President's chest. "I'm not doing this."

The corner of the paper crumpled against the front of Snow's suit as he leaned forward, his eyes wide with violence. "You will follow these instructions exactly as they are written, or the next thing you will receive are Miss Cresta's eyes. Do you understand?" The words reeked from his poisoned breath, sinking down into Finnick's stomach with sickening weight.

"Do you understand?" Snow asked him again, eyebrows raised in expectation.

"Yes," Finnick choked out the word.

Satisfied, the President straightened. He smiled as he unfastened the fresh white rose from his lapel, reached out and pinned it to Finnick's own, "Then I'll see you this evening, Mr. Odair."


End file.
